


AAA Acme Baked Goods

by sanguinity



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Bodyswap, Donuts, Gen, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Passive-Aggressive War of the Dougnuts takes a turn for the worse. Via <i>bodyswap.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	AAA Acme Baked Goods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FelicityGS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/gifts).



> Originally published at [tumblr](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/77741100538/because-you-got-me-on-this-show-hlots-bodyswap).

"I can’t believe you don’t know where you bought that doughnut," Frank snapped, once they were in the relative privacy of the parking garage.

"There were thirty-six!" Tim whined. How he managed to extract that wheedling pitch from Frank’s vocal chords, Frank had no idea.

"All from different shops! Why can’t you just go into a doughnut joint and ask for three dozen like a normal person?" He threw open the sedan door and dropped into the seat, cracking his head—Tim’s head—against the doorframe on the way. "You are stupidly tall."

"Not that much taller than you," Tim protested. Watching Frank wrestle with the seat adjustments, Tim added, "You have to raise the steering column and then slump down a little—"

"I. Do. Not. _Slump_.” At least Tim’s tongue was capable of proper enunciation. Frank cut a glare at the passenger seat, where Tim sat slouched in Frank’s body, phone book in his lap and head tucked low between his shoulders. “Sit up straight,” Frank snapped. “And stop ducking your head, you’re making me look like Stepin Fetchit.”

Tim gave Frank a bewildered puppy look. The expression sat strangely on Frank’s face. 

Frank tried to push back his irritation. “We will find your purveyor of magic doughnuts,” Frank growled, “if we have to start at triple-A Acme Baked Goods, and work our way through every diner, bakery, and doughnut stand in the city.”

"There is no triple-A Acme Bakery," Tim said. He absently stretched his neck inside Frank’s collar, his free hand sliding toward the knot of Frank’s tie.

"Don’t you touch my tie, Tim. If you sat up straight, you wouldn’t— _Don’t you touch my tie!_ ”

Tim loosened the tie anyway, and suddenly it was too much for Frank: the shock of hair in his eyes, the poorly-cut jacket, the knot that wouldn’t settle correctly at this throat. He shot out of the car—cracking Tim’s head on the door frame again—and ripped Tim’s tie off his neck, yanking the knot undone. He took a deep breath and flipped Tim’s collar, re-settled the length of fabric into position, then shut his eyes and concentrated on overriding the mishmash of muscle memories. When he finally had the knot the way he wanted it—tight, precise, and perfectly positioned—he opened his eyes to find that Tim had moved the yellow pages to the car roof. He leaned on the roof with crossed arms, watching Frank with something that might almost be affection.

"Feel better?" Tim asked.

"I will soon," Frank replied, patting down the pockets of Tim’s jacket. Tim’s eyes widened in panic, and Frank held out a hand across the roof. "Pass me my cigarettes."

"Oh, no you don’t! I was only just starting to get over the cravings."

Frank rolled his eyes. “Don’t fib to me. This isn’t ‘getting over’ the cravings.”

"Well, the stress might be making them worse," Tim admitted, coming around the car, hands out to placate him. "C’mon, Frank, don’t ruin all the progress I made."

"As if I care about that. It was a foolish quest in the first place. My cigarettes."

"Frank—!"

"I’m not going through the hell of your twice-damned magic doughnuts without a cigarette, Tim. You can give me my cigarettes, or I can get a new pack at the corner myself." He stepped in close to Tim and dropped his voice. "But just think," he crooned, and if Tim’s voice couldn’t go as smooth and low as Frank’s proper voice did, Frank could still work it well enough, "you could be having your first cigarette in months right now." He reached across the small distance between them, and unbuttoned his jacket. Tim didn’t resist. "No guilt. None at all. I’ve been smoking straight through, you’ll be doing me no harm." Tim was watching him with wide, half-hypnotized eyes. It was as bizarre as hell for Frank to be looking into his own face as he did this, but Frank’s body or no, Tim was just as susceptible as ever. Frank slid his hand up to the inside pocket, and he retrieved his cigarettes between two fingers. "Nothing but that sweet, sweet rush of nicotine hitting your bloodstream." Frank shook a cigarette free, placed it between his lips, and shook a second one free for Tim. "Smoke?"

The spell broke, and Tim almost dropped the cigarette in his haste to take it. With trembling hands, he fumbled Frank’s lighter out of his pocket, and drew deeply as he lit his cigarette. Frank leaned down—he’d say it again, Tim was _stupidly_ tall—so that Tim could light Frank’s too.

The first hit was wondrous, intensified by how long Tim had gone without. Not so good as to be worth the pains of temporarily weaning himself off the things, but Frank didn’t mind reaping the benefits of Tim having done so. He leaned back against the car to savor it, then doubled in a coughing fit as the smoke caught in his throat. When he straightened again, Tim was leaning against the car beside him, his eyes dazed and distant.

"Good?" Frank asked.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Tim breathed.

Frank smirked, and took another draw on his cigarette.


End file.
